


No Crash Landings

by jouissant



Category: Saga (Comics)
Genre: Backstory, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Freelancers gonna freelance, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 05:34:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jouissant/pseuds/jouissant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I know what you must be feeling right now, darling. I escaped monsters a lot like these ones when I was just about your age." </p><p> or: a girl, a spaceship, a master plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Crash Landings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dogtier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogtier/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this! I was intrigued by The Will's dream in _Saga_ #9, when The Stalk mentioned having a similar history to Slave Girl's. I was also interested in why exactly The Will was so hell-bent on saving Slave Girl. I love the grey motivations of the freelancers and how The Stalk is the best of the best, and was bummed that we didn't get to see more of her. So if this backstory ends up getting jossed by future issues, at least it'll be because we're getting more The Stalk in some way. Hope you like your treat, and thanks for requesting _Saga_ and giving me an excuse to write this story.

When the last of her captors lay quietly bleeding out onto the carpet, she wiped the gore methodically from her stinger and stepped out onto the bridge. She didn't remember how long it had been since she last saw the stars like this, spread out like a buffet before her. Back on the mothership, there was an observation room on the pleasure deck where people fucked sometimes. She supposed they played at innocence, pretending to be necking like idiot teenagers out under the skies of Old Earth. She'd never been there, though. The men who came for her always seemed to prefer the dark, private places. She took another step, then another, closer and closer to the display until she could make humid little circles with her breath on the glass. She raised her right foreleg and pressed her palm to it, spreading her fingers wide and letting the stars fall through them. 

There was a noise from behind her, a noise that wasn't the death rattle of that last skinny guard with a weakness for the littlest ones. She'd saved him, so he had a good long time to contemplate what was coming. She took a long moment with her stinger poised, just pricking the fabric of his jumpsuit and watching his Adams apple bob. He was done for, and he knew it, and he made a soft, wet little moan when she slid the point home that she would remember for the rest of her days. 

But that was ten, fifteen minutes ago, and this, now, was a new noise. This was a gasp of surprise, and it sounded---it sounded young. She wheeled around, her braid swinging like a hank of white rope. Behind her was a boy, a human boy. He couldn't have been older than she was. He stood in the center of the bridge, mouth opening and closing in panicked gulps, and she felt a spike of anger and fear. It was the first thing she remembered feeling since waking up in her cell in the always-dark of ship's morning. 

"What are you doing here?" she demanded. "There isn't supposed to be anyone else on the shuttle." She'd made sure of it. It had taken weeks of recon, but she wasn't taking anyone else down with her if it came to that. 

The boy's mouth opened again, but no sound came out. He cleared his throat, and his eyes flicked down to the guard's bloodless fish lips, fixed in an O. "Are you going to kill me?" he asked, voice ragged. 

"I don't know," she said. 

"I…I snuck on. I heard the guards talking about making a run a couple weeks ago, and I dumped my rations til I could fit through the bars." He could be telling the truth, she thought. He was painfully thin. Then his face clouded, and quick as a shot he dropped to the floor next to a crumpled body and came back up with a gun. She was just a hair slower with her stinger, and then there they were in a good old-fashioned stand off. 

"What are _you_ doing here?" he asked tightly. She was an inch from his jugular, with every confidence she could strike faster than he could find the trigger. But he'd been quick, that was for sure. 

"I was supposed to be going to the doctor," she said. The words felt thick sludgy around her stinger, but she supposed he'd understand.

"They--they chartered a whole shuttle just for you?" 

"I… don't think the ship's doctor knows what to do with me. They were taking me dirtside to see a…they said a specialist." The ship's doctor was a stooped, smelly man who smoked for free and slept where he liked in exchange for ignoring the "do no harm" part of his oath when necessary. 

The boy looked at her, taking in her legs and eyes, and she bristled at little at it, standing taller. But there was nothing appraising in his look, and his gaze settled back on her face. He smiled then, and lowered the gun, dropping it at his feet and holding up his hands in a gesture of deference. "Okay, look," he said. "No more gun. Can you stop pointing that thing at me now?" 

"It's a _stinger_ , she said huffily, but she did as he asked. 

"Thanks," he said, smiling up at her again. His face looked warm and open. She hadn't seen anyone look like that in a long time. "So what were you going to the doctor for?" he asked. 

She looked at her feet. A dark stain was creeping closer, and she stepped to one side. "We were doping my rations," she said. 

“Who’s we?” 

She looked away. _You can’t trust anyone, my girl._

“What’s it doing to you?” the boy asked.

"Making me sick." Abruptly, she felt as if all the blood were rushing from her head, and a constellation of dark spots swam into her line of sight. "Whoa," she said. 

"Are you okay?" He took a step toward her and her gut leaped, her hindbrain blaring at her to run, but instead she sank to the floor. Her ragged skirts pooled around her, draped over legs jutting up at acute angles. The boy took another step and knelt down to peer at her face. "You're shaking," he said. 

She looked around the room, taking in the guards' wrecked bodies for the first time. The captain was slumped halfway down in his chair, and a small red light blinked insistently on the console in front of him. He was just the pilot, she thought dully. She didn't have any quarrel with him. But who knew what he knew or thought he knew, who knew what he'd have done if she came to him for help. "You can't trust anyone, my girl." That's what Eyes said, sorrow in her voice. Eyes had been on the ship for a long, long time. The slavers got her young, so young she still had her arms. It was a shameful thing, for their people. But when they brought her in and dumped her in Eyes' cell, she wasn't sorry Eyes had deft, soft fingers to wipe her tears. 

"Why can't you come with me?" she'd asked Eyes in a whisper, secreted in a white-tiled corner of the sonic showers. 

Eyes smiled sadly. "I'm tired," she said. "No, my web will spin out here on this godforsaken ship. If I'm lucky I can bring down a john or two with me. My stinger's pretty blunt but it still works in a pinch." She smiled a little wider, a little more horribly, and this time it reached her eyes. "But you--you're for more than that, my girl. And we've been over the plan, haven't we, a thousand times?" 

She nodded, biting back tears. That was only yesterday, wasn't it? In the morning, before they'd come for her. It felt much longer ago somehow. But it was only hours, really, and now she stood surrounded by death, and dammit, she was supposed to be alone. 

"You're shaking," the boy said again, reaching out to her. His fingers brushed her shoulder just above the stump, and she gasped.

"Don't touch me!" 

"I'm--I'm sorry," he said. He fell silent. 

"You breathe too loudly," she said, sniffling. 

"I can't help it," he said, voice breaking a little on the last word. "You--you just--all these _people_. When they find us, they're going to kill us. They're going to kill us, you know that, right?" 

"Shut up," she said. "I need to think." She cast about the bridge. "It's on autopilot," she said. "But we can't stay up here forever." She peered out the view screen at the brown curve of the planet beneath them. 

"You don't know how to fly, do you?" she asked. 

"I used to play a lot of Starcrash," he offered. She rolled her eyes. 

"Wait," he said. "What if I'm serious?" 

She scoffed. 

"No, listen,” he said. “It can't be all that different from a sim. And it beats rotting here, orbiting fucking Cleave. I mean, our choices are basically get boarded and get sent back…back _there_ , starve to death living on a satellite, or get shot out of the sky 'cuz one side or the other thinks we're some kind of spy outfit." 

She bit her lip. He might have a point. "Let's go take a look at that console," she said. 

***

When the first ribbon of fire streaked across the view screen and the hull of the ship moaned like a dying beast, the boy snaked an arm around her waist. She was sure he could feel her heart beating, feel the heat of her through her thin smock. She felt disappointed, more than anything, though wasn't exactly surprising that it had come to this. They huddled on the floor, pressed up against the bulkhead. She wondered if she'd know when it happened. She wondered if her parents would be there. The boy's hand was sweaty at her side. 

"What's your name?" he asked suddenly, like it was very important. She didn't know what he was so worried about. Nothing was important anymore. 

"I don't remember," she said, because it was true. When she tried, her head filled with whispers of all the other names she’d been called since they took her. It made her dizzy, and eventually she’d stopped trying.

He made a soft sound, and lowered his head to her shoulder. She swallowed. "What’s yours?" she asked.

"Will," he said. 

There was a horrible rending sound, and then all she could see was red and black. 

***

The Stalk narrowed her eyes, peering into her scope. The target was a good quarter-mile to the west, but she could see him clear as day. He lifted a silver pouch of MRE glop and squeezed the remnants into his gob with one hand, reaching back to scratch his ass with the other. She felt a momentary twinge. He wouldn’t even see it coming. Then she shrugged. “Shouldn’t get top-secret clearance and then desert,” she muttered, biting her lip. Twenty long fingers gripped the barrel. It was handy, not needing to haul a tripod for sniper jobs. She squinted at him through the scope again, and fired. The man flopped backwards spasmodically, like a fish. She lowered the rifle. 

She stretched each of her legs in turn, relishing the opportunity to relax a bit. It was crampy work, tracking and lying in wait. She was thinking about hoofing it back to her shuttle when her earpiece beeped. _Incoming call_ , said the pleasant computerized voice. She sighed. “Accept,” she said.

“Hey, The Stalk! How’s my number one client?” She rolled her eyes. Five years on, and her agent hadn’t gotten an iota less smarmy. 

“Not bad,” she answered. “Just closed on that Landfall job, as a matter of fact.” 

“Fabulous news!” he gushed. “Now, you know I hate to bother you in the field, but I have someone on the line here for you, and--”

She groaned. “We talked about this,” she said. “As of now, I’m on vacation. I’m hiking out of this godforsaken swamp and getting in my shuttle and jetting off somewhere sunny. Don’t book me anything until further notice.” 

“Oh, it’s not about a job,” her agent said hurriedly. “He just said he was...an admirer of your work.” 

“Really.” She exhaled, a long whistling sound. Something off in the swamp answered, and she shivered. Okay, she was hauling ass back to her shuttle right fucking now, guns or no guns. “Fine, patch him through.” This should be good. 

“God fucking dammit, The Stalk, that was you, wasn’t it? God dammit. This was my fucking job and you fucking aced me again. After we _talked_ about it! I should’ve known better, I should’ve known--” 

She pulled her earpiece halfway out, wincing. That damn seahorse. Admirer her ass. “Hi, The Will! So nice to talk to you too,” she said brightly. “I missed hearing that sexy, gravelly voice of yours. In fact, you sound a little congested. Do you have a cold?” 

“Oh, save it. There’s a code, you know.” 

“Shoot first, ask questions later. That’s my code.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“How about ‘better to beg forgiveness than ask permission’?”

He snorted. 

She sighed. “Does this mean this weekend’s off? Because I was thinking about Base 7. There’s this cantina that’s supposed to have the best queso in the quadrant, and I am seriously jonesing for a margarita after tracking this dude for two weeks. And there’s a B&B right on the lagoon with these private casitas...”

“Ugh, fuck you. Fine. But you’re buying. _Everything_ ,” he said. 

She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth quirked up. “You’re so hot when you’re pissed off. I’ll call you when I get in the air. Unless you want me to swing by and pick you up.” She looked around, as if expecting him to swing out of a nearby tree. 

He was quiet for a long moment. She could hear him breathing over the line, somewhere out there in the fetid wilderness. “Nah,” he said finally. “I got Lying Cat waiting for me.” 

That cat, she thought. He treats it like a child. “Fine,” she said. “So I’ll give you a call.” 

“Cool,” he said. “Um, The Stalk?” 

“Yes?” 

“Fly safe.” 

Now she smiled in earnest. The diamond point of a meteorite streaked through the violet sky. “You too,” she said. “No crash landings.”


End file.
